


the whole time smiling 'cause she won

by piggy09



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-13 15:24:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18471706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piggy09/pseuds/piggy09
Summary: [SPOILERS FOR EPISODE 2 OF SEASON 2]“I don’t know if—” Eve starts. “I – I mean—” but her fingers are already flirting with the edge of the bandage, scrabbling at the adhesive, peeling it up. Villanelle sucks in a slow breath through her teeth.“There you go,” she whispers, “good girl,” and Eve slips two fingers in under the bandage.





	the whole time smiling 'cause she won

**Author's Note:**

> [warnings: blood, wound fingering]
> 
> You know what you're getting into. Sorry for sinning on the internet!

“Don’t freak out,” Villanelle says when Eve steps into her bedroom.

“Holy shit!” Eve shrieks, immediately. “How did you – when – I was just at—” She spins back and forth, half-pointing out the door and then spinning to gesture at Villanelle and – okay, Villanelle is _here_ , in Eve’s _house_ , wearing a crimson v-neck sweater and tight black pants, and she’s really sweaty and pale and half-slumped on Eve’s bed and – oh, shit, where’s Niko?

“Where is my _husband?_ ” Eve says.

Villanelle’s face scrunches up a little bit. “I don’t know,” she says. “I didn’t see him. You have stupid easy locks, you should change those, you will get burgled.” She reaches up a hand and mops sweat from her forehead. “Hello, Eve Polastri, good to see you again, no I am not mad at you for stabbing me, blah blah, I’m going to get to the point, can you get me some _fucking_ antibiotics? Please?”

Eve takes another step into the room, because she has no survival instincts whatsoever. “That’s why you came?” she says. She hates the way her voice wavers, but apparently it cheers Villanelle up; she perks up a little bit, preens.

“Well,” she says. “It was one reason.” She gives Eve a little grin that splits open the cut on the perfect cupid’s bow of her lip – and then the grin drops. “Seriously, though. I’ve been bleeding for a few _really_ shitty days, and—”

“Can I see it.”

Apparently neither of them were expecting Eve to say that; Eve should regret saying that; she doesn’t. She wants to see it.

“You always surprise me,” Villanelle says, voice very soft. “Don’t you. Okay, you want to see it? Come here. I’ll show you.”

She lifts up just the hem of her sweater; it’s not enough to reveal anything. Her eyes are locked on Eve. Her pupils are enormous. _She likes to show off_ , rasps Eve’s ghost. _She wants to be seen. By me_.

Eve swallows, chases her own voice down her throat and into the pit of her stomach – warm, now, getting warmer. She steps closer. She pulls her lip between her teeth and steps closer, again, another step, she’s standing between Villanelle’s spread legs now and Villanelle smells like – oh – roses. Roses in the heat of summer, drowsy and dizzy and sweet.

She breaks her gaze away from Villanelle’s eyes and looks down—

And Villanelle reaches a hand up, viper-fast, to grab Eve’s chin. “Not yet,” she says. Her voice is still very soft. _She doesn’t want to make me panicked_ , whispers a voice in Eve’s head, _in case I – in case it happens again_. She feels her breath stutter. She licks her lips, swallows. Villanelle’s hand around her throat is a comforting iron pressure.

“What do you mean, not yet,” Eve says.

“You can touch it,” Villanelle says. “But no looking yet. Okay?”

“Okay,” Eve whispers. She lifts her trembling right hand and touches her fingertips to Villanelle’s thigh. It’s well-muscled. Eve shivers her fingers up Villanelle’s waist, above her jeans to the rush of warm bare skin that’s waiting for her. She feels the edge of a bandage. It’s wet.

“Oh,” she says.

“Yeah,” Villanelle says. “Julian shoved his stupid little fists in it like six times. Hate that guy.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“Good. He was creepy. He had a lot of dolls.”

“Wait,” Eve says, pulling her hand back and jerking away from Villanelle’s hand on her chin. “Julian. Is that the man who—”

Villanelle gives a dramatically annoyed groan in the pit of her throat. She grabs Eve’s wrist; she pulls Eve’s hand back under her sweater, guides it back to the wound. Two of Eve’s fingertips press against the bandage and Villanelle groans again. It’s a different sound.

Eve means to say something incredibly witty, like _shit_ , but instead she just sort of makes an answering sound. Softer, sweeter. She can feel Villanelle’s heartbeat pulsing in the skin under the bandage; it’s pumping more blood out, trying to heal what Eve did to her.

“I did this,” she says.

“You did,” Villanelle says. When she sucks in breath to talk her stomach moves out; when she talks, it moves back in again. Eve hadn’t really thought about breathing before – now she can’t stop thinking about it. The way air moves through Villanelle’s lungs. Eve could have stopped that, if she’d aimed higher.

“How does it feel?” Villanelle murmurs. “Eve?”

“Good,” Eve says. “It feels – it feels good. I. Sorry?”

“Don’t be sorry,” Villanelle says, sounding offended. “Be proud.”

“Okay,” Eve whispers weakly. Then she blurts: “I ditched the knife. In a Paris airport. I wrapped it up in toilet paper and put it in the tampon bin.”

“That’s smart,” Villanelle says. “Nobody ever looks there. Idiots.” She lets go of Eve’s wrist while she’s talking and Eve swallows, lets her hand splay flat against Villanelle’s bandage.

“Everybody really underestimates women,” she says, her voice spiralling high and giddy. “I mean, you tell someone you have food poisoning and they just – let you go, honestly, I bet no one will even _check_ the bin to—”

“Eve.”

Eve stutters, stops. “Villanelle,” she says.

“Touch it,” Villanelle says.

“I am touching it.”

“No you aren’t, you big baby. Go on. I thought you were proud! Be proud. Really feel it.”

“I don’t know if—” Eve starts. “I – I mean—” but her fingers are already flirting with the edge of the bandage, scrabbling at the adhesive, peeling it up. Villanelle sucks in a slow breath through her teeth.

“There you go,” she whispers, “good girl,” and Eve slips two fingers in under the bandage.

It’s warm, humid, soaked through. Villanelle’s breathing hitches; Eve’s fingertips graze against her skin and then that skin is gone again as Villanelle controls herself. Eve darts a glance to see – Villanelle’s mouth is open, slightly, and her eyes are very dark. She’s staring into the middle distance. Eve licks her lips and strokes the puckered edge of the wound, the stitches and the scarring.

“Wow,” she says.

“Yeah,” Villanelle says. “Wow.” Her voice is hoarse. “Wow wow wow.”

Eve pulls in a slow breath, lets it out, and then pushes her fingers very slightly into the wound. Villanelle makes a tortured animal sound; she surges forward and her head bows into Eve’s stomach. Her breath is gasping. “Holy shit,” she says, sounding wrecked, “you are so _kinky!_ I like it. Eve. Do it again.”

Eve does it again. Blood comes spouting out of Villanelle’s dark insides and soaks Eve’s fingertips. Eve can feel Villanelle all around her fingers, heartbeat throb. The edge of a stitch pulses against one of Eve’s fingerprints; it bites at her skin with sharp little teeth. This wound like a mouth, a mouth that Eve made in Villanelle. Eve is really – she’s really – well, she likes it. She likes it a lot.

“This is fucked up,” she whispers.

“It is really fucked up,” Villanelle whispers back, breath ghosting against Eve’s shirt. “Don’t stop though.”

Eve doesn’t stop. She wriggles her whole hand under Villanelle’s bandage and takes in the wound, all of it, her wound, Eve’s wound. Villanelle shudders against Eve, forehead digging into Eve’s stomach. If she had a knife – but she probably doesn’t – who is Eve kidding, it’s a real possibility. If Villanelle had a knife she could cut Eve right open, touch her gently with two fingertips, feel what it’s like to be so close to all the vulnerable pieces and parts that keep her alive. She could feel Eve’s heartbeat pulsing through her skin.

Villanelle doesn’t stab Eve, though. She just breathes, pants, and lets Eve. She lets her. Eve strokes the wiry angle of each stitch and with her other hand she cups the back of Villanelle’s skull, cards her fingers through Villanelle’s hair. It’s soft; when Eve strokes it, it sighs out another breath of rose-scented air. Everything smells like copper and summer. Eve could kill Villanelle, right now. She could break Villanelle’s neck. Villanelle could bite out Eve’s throat with her teeth. Eve could dig her whole hand into her wound.

“I know you killed that boy,” she murmurs. “In hospital.”

“Gabrielle,” Villanelle murmurs back, through choked sounds. “Yeah. He was okay. Ugly – mm! – ugly though.”

“And now he’s dead,” Eve says, and she makes herself pull her hand away.It takes a bit of effort; her hand is sticking to the skin of Villanelle’s stomach, dried blood gluing her down. It takes a pull and a muffled _mn!_ from Villanelle and then Eve is free. The air is cold, outside of Villanelle’s sweater. Away from the heat of her, it’s cold.

“People die all the time, Eve,” Villanelle says. When Eve looks at her she sees that Villanelle’s eyes are closed; her eyelashes are dusting her cheeks. Eve focuses on those eyelashes for a second too long and Villanelle’s eyes snap open.

“Now do you want to see it?” she says.

Eve looks down. She pretends not to notice that she’s still stroking Villanelle’s hair. She stares instead at her hand: her red-streaked palm, her dripping fingertips. Part of her brain chatters frantically that if a single drop of blood reaches the carpet it will stain forever – blood is so hard to get out, you need baking soda – Eve thinks it’s baking soda – it’s too late, she’s already lifted her fingertips to her mouth. She’s sucked the blood off. It explodes in her mouth, too red to believe.

Villanelle lifts her head curiously and watches Eve, watches Eve’s fingers in Eve’s mouth. The corner of her own mouth crooks up – a smile that’s pleased, surprised, dangerous. _I want to taste that smile_ , says part of Eve’s mind, and another part of Eve’s mind says _I want to cut it open_ , and she’s not sure she’s surprised at either of them. She doesn’t think she’s surprised at all. Her fingers fall out of Villanelle’s hair, slowly, burdened by the weight of that lack of surprise.

“What does it taste like?” Villanelle says.

Eve pulls her fingers out of her mouth and offers her hand to Villanelle, palm down. She says nothing; her mouth echoes, still, with the taste of Villanelle’s electric blood.

Villanelle leans forward – she doesn’t break eye contact with Eve, looks right at her as she rasps her tongue along Eve’s knuckles. The back of her hand. The edge of her wrist. Then she leans back against the bed, two splayed hands on the comforter; she licks her lips and says: “It tastes good.”

“It tastes good,” Eve echoes, and lifts her hand back to her mouth to taste it again.

**Author's Note:**

> She took me back and stitched me up  
> The whole time smiling 'cause she won  
> \--"My Gun," The Rubens
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please kudos + comment if you enjoyed! :)


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